Why I Don’t Totally Suck


1. I said “ass” in front of my kids … ok, fine…. maybe I said more than just  “ass” … then told them they can’t say bad words.

2. After sternly telling my 4-year-old he couldn’t have mini donuts at bedtime, I quickly shoved 3 in my mouth and closed up the bag all stealthy and ninja like.

3. I counted my kid to a 3 (3 strikes you’re out kind of thing) and then did absolutely nothing.

4. I yelled at my kids to stop all their yelling.

5. I lectured my 9-year-old about sounding bossy or condescending when talking to her brother, then turned around and did the same thing to hubby … oops.



1. Didn’t strangle any kids.

2. Didn’t let anyone starve to death – not even the dog.

3. Didn’t drink an entire bottle of wine in a single sitting.

4. Kept kids relatively clean.

5. Didn’t drink before noon …….. many days.

6. Didn’t sneak out in the middle of the night, change my identity and start a new life in Mexico.

There ya have it … the ‘right’ things list is longer than the ‘wrong’ things list, obviously I rock.

maria messyI said ‘relatively’ clean



What Being ‘The Baby’ Really Means

Every damn thing you do is perfect and adorable!

Throw all the DVDs on the floor and roll around in them like Scrooge McDuck,

Feed the dog chocolate,

Smack Daddy in the face with a remote,

Awwwwww … you’re such a cute freakin baby!

While all the first-time moms jingle car keys in front of their baby saying, “come on… walk to Mommy,” I’m pushing you down on your bottom. Don’t walk. Babies don’t walk!

And while I bitch and moan about being so tired, I have to admit something. When you cry at 11:15pm, 2:10am, 4:48am I get out of bed kinda excited to snuggle you for a minute and then stare at your fat baby cheeks after I lay you back down, sound asleep.

I’ll squeeze you into your 9 months clothes and carry you around in my ‘baby kangaroo’ pouch. Shit, I would still swaddle you if it were physically possible.

Until now, I rolled my eyes at my mom for always having this soft spot for my little brother.  There’s a light in her eyes when she talks about him and a nostalgic smile when she says, “but he’s The Baby“.  I would shake my head and think, “He’s almost 30 damn years old, he’s not a baby!” Oh but how wrong I have been. He IS the baby.  He is her baby.  The last one is always The Baby.

The older kids leave an image in your mind as their ‘kid self’. You actually have trouble when you close your eyes and try to visualize their baby days. The baby though? I imagine as years pass I will have trouble seeing her as anything but a chubby cheek, babbling, sticky hands, piece of perfection.

In 4 years when I have to walk away and let her go into her kindergarten class, I’m pretty sure I will be like the dad in Finding Nemo.  “Are you sure you wanna do this? Because there’s no problem if you don’t. We can wait …. 5 or 6 years.”

Baby Maria 2


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When Did This Become Acceptable?

The housekeeping standards that have become acceptable after baby #3 make my head spin.

When there were just 2 kids, I was able to maintain our home pretty well.  I mean, it wasn’t in model showcase condition like it was pre-kids, but we could walk without tripping over shit and if an unexpected guest stopped by, I could throw crap in a closet or under a bed pretty damn fast.   Now? Well now we look like we live in the damn Malcom in the Middle house. Minus the bitchy-ass wife, oh wait.

Vacuum cleaners are supposed to have a permanent spot in the living room right? If not, then the Goldfish, Cheerios and dog hair would.

Laundry being done, used to mean it was clean, dry, folded and put away – in the right drawers. Now if the clothes didn’t turn mildewy and is folded on the back of the couch, voila!  Laundry done.  If  I’m extra ambitious, everyone’s piles are separated.  Don’t hold your breath for mated socks.


Beds being made used to be the first goal of the day.  It’s a little easier to accept notebooks, barbies, jewelery kits all being strewn about if the  sheets are pulled into hospital corners and the shams have perfectly pointy, crisp corners.  We are now on day 3 of messy bed.  We are lucky if the bedspread is even balled up on the bed instead of thrown on the floor … with the dog laying on it …  licking his junk.


So I try to hit the main areas right before bed and make sure they are tidy enough to be functional in the morning.  Functional!  When the hell did that become the goal?  Kitchen – no food left out, no disgusting dishes in the sink.   Yep, that’s the whole checklist.  Most nights we settle for 1 out of 2. Clean floors, disinfect counters, empty trash can, put away dishes from drying rack – alllllllll of that, nope.  Not anymore.

Dining room table …  no sticky shit on it? Good to go. Captain America shield, Lego Batman, coloring book, tiny Spiderman – you’re all welcome to sleep there tonight.

Playroom – is there a clear path to walk? Awesome.  Finally I can go brush my teeth and get in bed. Oh, a Batman mask in my bathroom? Puh-lease, that’s totally acceptable.



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Zero To Hero | Reason To Believe

My husband makes fun of me for the time I put into my blog. When I told him I had some assignments to work on he laughed … loudly ….. at me – or at least in my general direction.  Yes, I have ‘assignments’.  I chose to have them.  I approach my blog the same way I approach everything else in my life, with 100% OCD determination to do a damn good job and wear myself totally out in the process.  So this blogging challenge (Zero To Hero) I’m participating in gives me ideas, support and suggestions to improve my blog and help me figure out where I’m driving this bus.

Today’s prompt: Reason To Believe

The baby just woke crying while I was working on this.

-I have reason to believe she will do it again.

It’s 11pm and I’m the only one still up.

-I have reason to believe I will also be the first one up in the morning.

Sometimes when I stay up late, writing or reading I get the munchees.

-I have reason to believe I will be cheating on my diet tonight.

There is some type of music award show on TV tonight.

-I have reason to believe Kanye will say something asinine.

I just called it ‘some type of music award show’

-I have reason to believe I am getting old.

I will show this post to my husband tomorrow.

-I have reason to believe he will laugh at me.




Too Serious To Take Seriously

Laughing and making fun of things is my coping mechanism of choice.  It’s how I keep a grasp on my sanity. I’ve got shit to do, I can’t be bothered with big, life things when I’m caught up in the chaos of all the little things. There are diapers to change, lunches to make, fevers to break.  I went into this blogging adventure full force as my usual, loud, smart-ass self cracking jokes about all these little things that are life.

Today I was smacked in the face and kicked in the gut about what things are life.

I’m in my 30’s. My kids are little and I’m just starting to get a hold of this mother, wife, family thing. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me to perfect it.  Except I may not.  Today could be as perfect as it get.

Could you imagine changing a diaper and looking down at that squirming, twisting, shit covered baby and thinking, “this could be the last time I do this, if I’m gone tomorrow who will know how to occupy your little hands so you don’t stick them in your poop? Who will know just how close these tabs need to be so this diaper doesn’t leak or fall off? Who will know which diaper cream is for day time and which is for night? If I’m not here to lift you up and kiss your little face like I do after every diaper change, who will do it???” These are Mommy jobs.

Today a baby lost a Mommy. That’s too serious to take seriously.

A group of teenage girls with boyfriend problems, research papers, high school pageants and homecoming dresses all grew up, got married and had babies. Today, thanks to cancer, one of those babies is left without a Mommy. That’s too serious to take seriously.

That group of teenagers had a toast and today it’s all I keep replaying in my mind. I hear it loud and clear.  I see our smiling faces, carefree, all of us in a circle looking at each other, raising those solo cups of beer as we shout:

Here’s to the boys, that we love, that we love.

Here’s to the boys, that love us, that love us,

But the boys that we love, aren’t the boys who love us,

So fuck the boys, and here’s to us!

photo(14)Ms. Fletcher Pageant 1996